To Find That Lost Horizon
by HalfshellVenus1
Summary: Michael and Lincoln Gen AU: What if Lincoln's execution in S1 had not been stayed?
1. Chapter 1

Title: **To Find That Lost Horizon (1/2)**

Author: HalfshellVenus

Characters: Michael and Lincoln (**Gen, Angst**)

Rating: K+

Summary: This is an alternative take on Season 1's "By the Skin and the Teeth," where Lincoln's execution is not stayed and Michael must figure out how to survive his brother's death.

Author's Notes: My final-round entry for **pbficsurvivor**, based on a suggestion by **wrldpossibility**. Also for **prisonbreak100**, this is "Days" for how hard each one is to get through.

x-x-x-x-x

Time is a whisper—a curse—at the edges of this somber room. There is no clock, but time weaves in and out of every word, every gesture, every glance.

It's running out…

~*~

_"Swear to me, Lincoln," Michael insisted, with everything riding on that single answer. If Lincoln hadn't killed Steadman then Michael's future was forfeit, because he'd have to try—he could see the miracle that was possible, remote but still possible. The treacherous piecing together of inside knowledge and connected opportunity was a puzzle only Michael understood, and it could kill or save them both. _

_He waited for Lincoln to speak, eyes burning with fear for either response. He'd already set the bulk of the plan in motion, sealed his life off, transformed his skin, but this last step would be irreversible: a gun, a felony, a forever-altered fate._

_"I swear to you Michael," Lincoln answered finally, in a voice that left no room for doubt._

_Michael could feel the bars closing in around him then. The thought of being locked inside Fox River was terrifying, but it was the linchpin in Lincoln's freedom. He would have to make sure that first part turned out right._

~*~

Every step from the moment Michael put on that suit and loaded the gun has been calculated, a series of small, crucial actions all building toward a single goal. An Allen bolt, a passageway behind the cells, a water-filled cistern leading to the property room that houses Michael's watch, a fake phone, a pact of trust, a tube of toothpaste.

Any of these things alone looks deceptively meaningless. But together they add up to an escape plan, all on a timeline ordained by Lincoln's impending execution.

The plan's still holding together in spite of several unforeseen hitches. There's the pedophile who tried to corner Michael on day one, and now holds a grudge for something Michael didn't do. The Mafioso Michael needed for transportation liked the bribe so much that he tried to force the information early, and took Michael's toes as the price for his stubborn silence.

The psychotic cellmate who held up Michael's schedule until all the slack slipped away was nothing compared to Michael nearly getting transferred out of Fox River. If that had gone through, the rest would have been hopeless. Michael couldn't save Lincoln from the outside these last three years; locked inside a different prison with just weeks to go, he'd have lost even the visiting privileges he'd had to offer Lincoln before.

The betrayals will be harder than Michael had expected. He'd intended only to form a rapport with the doctor, and something's changed in her when she sees him, something more than affinity. She wasn't supposed to find out about the marriage, and she can't know it isn't real. Sara already thinks he's a two-timing cheat now; imagine how used she'll feel when she finds out her Infirmary was the focal point of his escape.

Warden Pope already weighs on Michael's conscience. They were never supposed to meet—Michael would've stayed a faceless number if not for the warden's plans for _him_. But Pope thinks he knows him—that he's nurtured Michael's potential—and he'll take the escape personally now. It's too late for Michael to undo that.

The date's getting closer, right around the corner. So many things left to do, and what if he doesn't finish them in time? What if something new—god, there've been so many "somethings" already—gets in the way?

What if he fails?

_Can't think like that,_ he tells himself, pushing the thoughts away. He's got work to do, and the hours are moving by faster every day…

~*~

_The pipe. The-pipe-the-pipe-the-pipe-the-pipe-the-pipe…_

That was the part that couldn't change—the access into the Infirmary where Lincoln was waiting. Michael had been working on it since he came to Fox River—he'd been getting insulin shots for almost a month, for god's sake, just to have access to the drain that would let him corrode that pipe.

But when the escape team finally made it to the room under the Infirmary tonight, the pipe wasn't the one that had been there just this morning. Michael can still see the new pipe shining overhead, repeating in an image that glares again and again before his shell-shocked eyes.

What the hell is he going to do now?

_Think, think, think…_ He paces in his cell, desperate for an alternative—a chance to stall the execution.

Charles. He'd been telling Michael some story on that fractured trip back to the Break Room about someone whose execution was delayed because of an electrical problem with The Chair.

Michael's breath catches in his throat, then eases out slowly. He's spent years learning how to avoid electrical problems. Making one _happen _is just the inverse of something he already knows.

~*~

This.

This has been the longest day of Michael's life.

He shorted-out the electrical supply that fed the Chair, but it was repaired and the execution rescheduled with almost no delay. Despite a day of scrambling and grasping at straws, he came up with… nothing.

He wasn't able to save Lincoln after all.

Tears sting his eyes, and he forces them back down. They'll be coming to take him to Lincoln any minute, and he can't show up looking like he feels. He owes it to his brother not to destroy him before the last and most terrible experience he'll ever face.

He gave Lincoln hope where there was none, made him _believe_ and then fell short of the miracle he promised. The fact that he almost, _almost_ made it happen doesn't matter—Lincoln's still here in Fox River, and the end is coming. The only difference now is that Lincoln was prepared for this day before—had accepted it and made peace with it—and Michael's schemes undid all that and laid him bare once more for all the horror that is to come.

Michael knows he'll never forgive himself for that.

There's a sound on the walkway outside his cell, and this is it—time to put on his brave face and help Lincoln through this last impossible part of waiting.

~*~

The next few hours are a blur of stiff smiles and fighting not to break down and sink Lincoln's mood any lower than it already is. Michael keeps thinking that he can't stand it for much longer, and then he's flooded with guilt, because when it's over everything _else _will be over with it.

He can't even begin to make himself ready for that to happen.

He hasn't even thought about what life will be like when Lincoln's gone, because he refused to ever consider the possibility. There was no contingency for the plan not working—there was only the two of them, some place safe and unreachable where Lincoln had a future and Michael could erase his own short-term criminal past.

What the hell is he going to do now?

"Promise me," Lincoln's voice breaks through the mental fog, "that you'll take care of LJ."

"Of course," Michael answers, though he doesn't know how—LJ's outside and he's in here, and he can't imagine what the world will be like without Lincoln in it and whether he'll be able to take care of _anything _after that.

_Don't think about— not now— _

He gets up and refills their cups with water, something to do, someplace else to be, as if moving fast enough will leave those thoughts behind.

"Here you go. Want to play some cards?"

"Yeah, why the hell not."

Lincoln sounds so listless, as if he's already stopped being here, and Michael's heart sinks at the realization.

There is so much he needs to say—has kept from saying this last hour. Now he wants to say it while he's still sure Lincoln might be listening.

"I'm so sorry I didn't get you out of here," Michael begins. "I had everything planned—I really did, I wouldn't have gotten your hopes up if I hadn't. But I couldn't quite make it to the finish, and… I just want you to know how sorry I am."

"It's all right," Lincoln says hoarsely, like a thousand other times when Michael missed the ball or got too caught up in a book to start dinner on time. Like every other failure, but there's no trying again with this one. There are no second chances left anymore.

"No, it _isn't_ all right." Michael's throat tightens, and he pulls his chair closer to Lincoln's. "You shouldn't be here, you didn't kill anyone, and I couldn't fix it!" he finishes in anguish.

"But you _tried,_ Michael. How many people would even have tried, especially for a guy like me? Nobody—only you would have even thought of something like this, let alone tried to do it."

"I had to. You're my brother," Michael whispers.

Lincoln reaches out and pats Michael's shoulder, then pulls him into a rough hug. "As your brother, I'm going to tell you something and you'd better listen: after all of this, when I'm gone, you need to watch out for yourself. Here, in prison I mean. Don't let your guard down or someone's going to take advantage of it. Be careful. Promise me you will."

"Okay." Michael's answer is almost inaudible, the struggle with tears lost now along with any willingness to see beyond this moment. He leans his head against Lincoln's, feeling the comforting warmth around him that will be gone forever within an hour's time.

He can't promise anything right now and mean it. The future is unknowable and too terrible to want to understand. Lincoln won't be in it, and Michael will wish he weren't either.

Surviving the unsurvivable—that's what waits for Michael in the next eternity of tomorrows.

For a second, he wonders if his mission to rescue Lincoln was anything more than a desperate attempt to put off facing exactly what's here in front of him right now.

"Ready for some cards?" Lincoln says finally, and Michael knows he's trying to make it easier for him—for _him_—now of all the times Lincoln deserves to be utterly selfish.

"You bet," he says, wiping his eyes and pasting on a smile that is nothing compared to what he owes Lincoln now and always. "I'll deal."

~*~

The guards come all too soon.

The last part of Michael's time with Lincoln was stolen—or eased— by Veronica joining them. Michael can't think whether it would have been better or worse without her; her presence reminded him that someone who understands a little of his pain will still be there when it's over.

In the closed-in hallway leading to the death chamber, Lincoln hugs each of them in turn and it's so hard for Michael to let go. He can't stop thinking that if he stalls a few seconds more something will change— the phone might ring and Lincoln could still be saved…

It's Lincoln who pulls back instead, turning bravely away and letting the guards accompany him to that final doorway. Michael watches blearily as his brother's posture stiffens, as Lincoln steels himself for what's coming.

Michael's still holding his breath when Lincoln steps across the threshold.

_(continued in next chapter)_


	2. Chapter 2

Title: **To Find That Lost Horizon (2/2)**

Author: HalfshellVenus

Characters: Michael and Lincoln (**Gen, Angst**)

Rating: K+

Summary: This is an alternative take on Season 1's "By the Skin and the Teeth," where Lincoln's execution is not stayed and Michael must figure out how to survive his brother's death.

Author's Notes: My final-round entry for **pbficsurvivor**, based on a suggestion by **wrldpossibility**. Also for **prisonbreak100**, this is "Days" for how hard each one is to get through.

x-x-x-x-x

It's quiet in Block A in the forgotten hours of the night. The two- and three- and four-o'clock questions that crowd in and haunt Michael then have no answers, but the loneliness holds something a little like peace.

In the daytime Fox River's schedule progresses with bells and commands and commotion, when all Michael wants is to be left alone. He's trapped with a cellmate whose sympathy is more than he can bear, because Michel can't be happy or comforted, he can't 'move on' or 'let go' or anything else his friend might wish for. With kindness comes expectations, and Michael has nothing left to give anyone including himself.

In the daytime he longs for the night again, the undemanding night. He wants the freedom to do nothing, whether it's for now or for an eternity, the freedom of silence and stillness that lets the rest of the world just slip away.

"Let's get some breakfast," Sucre urges him, but what Michael hears instead is Lincoln saying "I'll make you pancakes" some Sunday morning when their mother had to go to work.

Michael hardly left his cell at all the first week, unable to lift his lead-filled body off the cot where he lay curled against the wall, staring at the holes and uneven terrain of the gray bricks filling the space in front of him, He doesn't go outside into the Yard anymore, because the fenced-in area where Lincoln used to be waits like an accusation, impossibly vibrant in its emptiness.

The cafeteria is full of knowing eyes, some sympathetic but all of them too heavy—settling on Michael's shoulders until the skin on his back starts to jump. He usually doesn't bother going.

Warden Pope came to see him in his cell the day after, wondering about a memorial service in the chapel, and Michael couldn't sit still to even discuss it. The irony of a prison service for a man it had _killed_ was too much for him, and the warden's sorrow was a burden that threatened to bury him under its weight. Michael sat down on the floor and wrapped his arms over his head, keeping out all the emotions and meaning and _words_ as he rocked the world loose. The cell was dark by the time he stopped.

~*~

_He should have said no when Lincoln asked him to be a witness, but he couldn't. How could he refuse when _Lincoln_ had no choice about being there, about letting himself be killed in someone else's place?_

_Michael didn't say no._

_The room was filled with reporters and a few officials for the President, and there he and Veronica were— his shackles throwing still more accusation on Lincoln—the only two people who weren't there to feed the silent lie and to gloat. _

_It was all he could do not to scream his brother's innocence._

_The guards put Lincoln into the Chair, put on the restraints that would hold his arms and legs and waist. Lincoln didn't fight or cringe or make the slightest sound, not even when they moistened his head and slipped on that deadly metal-cage cap. In those moments, trapped in the worst experience of his entire life, Lincoln was as brave as he'd always been. It filled Michael with pride and then destroyed him all at once._

_He stumbled forward, making sure he was up against the glass where Lincoln could see him, where his love would be the last thing Lincoln would take away from this world. _

_When the black hood dropped over Lincoln's face, Michael turned away, unable to watch the end._

_And when the lights dimmed and flickered and the air crackled with current, Michael's stomach rose up through his throat and heaved its contents on the floor, a spasm of soul-deep agony overtaking him before he could even think to try to conceal it._

~*~

"When're we getting out, boy?"

Michael's made it out to the railing this morning, his clothes nightmare-wet against his skin as he stares at the prisoners swirling and eddying down below. T-Bag's voice falls wetly on his ear, breaking him into the present—the forgotten present, where nothing waits but the long hours of loss and remorse that fill Michael's days.

"No hurry now." Michael's voice is flat, devoid of interest in the either the idea or the threat that lies behind the question.

"Life goes on, Pretty, and don't you forget it. The rest of us are mighty tired of waiting."

Michael doesn't notice him leaving, doesn't hear anything but the voices in his head:

_"I need you to take care of the dishes—I've got to go out."_

_Lincoln had said that Friday night too, and Michael's stomach grew heavy, his dinner congealing into a leaden mass._ Drugs again? _he wondered. This was how it always started—going out late, sleeping half the day away afterwards, just like this morning. God please, not drugs. Things were going so well…_

_"Going to see some friends?" he asked tentatively._

_"Uh, no," Lincoln answered. "It's—I've got a second job as a bouncer over at this dance club on Halsted. Just a temporary thing. Be sure to turn off any lights you're not using."_

_Michael dug out some candles from kitchen junk drawer after Lincoln left, huddling in bed to read in semi-darkness when the dishes were done. He wondered if they'd be able to buy groceries this week and still make next month's rent…_

~*~

Veronica came to see Michael today, for the first time ever. He thinks she did it for herself and not for him, hoping to draw strength from someone else's heartbreak over losing the man they both loved when everything sensible said they shouldn't.

They'd both tried at different times to walk away, Veronica more successfully than Michael. She'd had a life of her own finally—a fiancé—and Michel wound up throwing his future, his past, his _everything_ away to wind up here. All he had in the end was Lincoln and the driving force of hope. Now both of them are gone.

Veronica was already crying on the other side of the glass when he got there, her eyes pleading with Michael for _something,_ like he had anything left to give. "Don't come back for awhile," he said when his time was over.

The whole thing took so much out of him that the guards had to half-drag him back to his cell.

_The room is gray, rust-colored stains on the walls, and Michael only notices them because he's trying so desperately to look anywhere but at the Chair that defines the room's purpose. The side of the room closest to him is glass, the viewing deck for the gallery of those whom come to prey on death and call it justice. _

_Suddenly the door opens and a man shuffles in, guarded and manacled against escape from an agonizing death. His face is a blur, but still Michael backs up against the wall until he can go no farther. It's then that the man turns to him in recognition:_

_"Michael! Michael, you've got to help me, don't let them do this to me—Michael!"_

_Lincoln pulls against his chains, straining toward Michael even as the guards force him down into the Chair. "Michael, help me!" _

_But Michael is rooted to the spot, as if the wall at his back has swallowed him and submerged him into stone._

_A guard drops the hood over Lincoln's face and steps away as another man grabs the lever._

_"Michaellllll!"_

Gasping awake, Michael sits up so rapidly that he bangs his head into the bottom of the top bunk above him. "Fuck!" he growls, clutching his head and rubbing it. His face is wet, the dream so real it still has a hold on him, and the physical pain is a welcome distraction.

Block A is quiet now, the dead-of-night stillness that marks these hours of self-recrimination Michael knows all too well. Every one of the last six nights he's found himself staring at the bottom of the bunk above him— whether from the aftermath of a nightmare, or just too many emotions chasing through his thoughts to let him go to sleep at all.

He tries to remember all the times it wasn't perfect—lots of times, practically _all_ of the time.

It doesn't matter.

He wouldn't be here if it did.

~*~

The guards still take him to the Infirmary for his insulin shots every day. That trip has become harder than ever, the combination of medical treatment he never needed and the impossibility of escaping the kind of sympathy that could easily destroy him.

"How are you doing today, Michael?" Sara's taking his vitals oh-so-gently, as if his outsides are as fragile as what's inside now, on the verge of breaking through.

"Mmh," Michael says. He doesn't have the energy for words today, usually doesn't, and he wishes the rest of the world would just let him disappear.

"I want you to know—" Sara clears her throat and tries again. "I did give those papers to my father, and I begged him to read them, but I don't think he even bothered. And I'm sorry, Michael, so sorry about everything." Her eyes are wet now. "I really am…"

It's easier to comfort Sara than himself, and he brushes his hand over her arm and offers her the understanding she's seeking. "I know," he says softly.

Then he turns his head away and holds out his arm, hoping she'll give him the shot and just let him escape out from under all these regrets that are threatening to choke him.

Later, in the safety of his cell, he feels bad for acting like that when she was only trying to help. He is alienating people who care about him—cared about Lincoln. But they all want something from him, whether it's reassurances or for him to begin _healing_.

And he can't.

Lincoln knew better, knew how to give without taking when Michael really needed it. He'd put his arm around Michael and sit with him awhile, or squeeze his shoulder and let his eyes say all that was necessary. He didn't talk.

God, but it's lonely now without him…

~*~

_"Hey, Michael, what're you up to there?" _

_He'd have thought the purpose of Want Ads would have been obvious, but maybe they weren't. Or maybe Lincoln thought Michael was scoping out a better job for _him,_ one with higher pay. _

_Lincoln never really looked more than two months down the road, so why had Michael expected this time to be different?_

_"I'm looking for a job," Michael answered, his eyes never leaving the listings—as if some miracle of a white-collar windowless bookkeeping hell was going to jump out at him any minute._

_"You already have a job, it's called going to school." Lincoln sounded puzzled._

_"Yeah, but that'll be over in a few months when I graduate from high school, and my afternoons are free already. If I don't find something now, there'll be nothing left in June."_

_"You mean a summer job," Lincoln persisted._

_"No, Lincoln, I mean an actual paying-the-bills kind of job."_

_"But you're going to college!"_

_Michael sighed. "Lincoln, even if I get a scholarship—and there's no guarantee I will—that doesn't cover enough of the expenses to go full-time. It'll just have to wait."_

_Lincoln stared at him for a moment, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "There's money," he said suddenly._

_"What?"_

_"Money. From when Mom died—she left money for you to go to college."_

_"And you're just telling me this _now?_" After months of worrying about where his life would go next?_

_"Yeah. So don't sweat it, okay? You're going to college."_

God, how the hell could he actually have _believed_ any of that? There was no money—there had never _been_ any money, not for anything after Mom died. That's how they wound up in foster care to begin with.

The money Lincoln got hold of for Michael's future became the noose around his neck that led to his murder conviction, that led to his death. All for Michael.

_Fuck_.

Suddenly the cell Michael's hidden in for days is too small for him to breathe. He lurches out the doorway, awkward and aimless, just needing to _move_.

Across the upper level and down the stairs he goes, so many people crowding on the ground floor that he wonders if the outside break is coming up. Not that it matters—nothing much matters, he doesn't even pay attention to the time anymore.

He only catches sight of the prisoner coming up to the left when he nearly bumps into him. The ones that grab him from behind and shove him into a cell are even more of a surprise.

"Caught myself a Fish," the biggest one says. Latham, Michael thinks, somebody-Latham, one of the White Power gang.

"Think Bagwell wants him?" another one asks.

"Doesn't matter—Bagwell ain't here, and he never laid claim anyway."

The blow to Michael's stomach is swift and vicious, doubling him over while unseen hands yank his shirt up and rip open his pants, pushing him against the wall.

"Hold on now boys, hold on!" T-Bag's voice is unmistakable. "Didn't anyone ever teach you not to trespass on other people's property?"

The only answer is the sound of the other prisoners leaving the cell.

"Next time, I won't be so concerned for your well-being," T-Bag hisses in Michael's ear. "So you'd better make sure we're _out_ of Fox River before the next time comes, do you hear?"

"Got it," Michael answers shakily.

"All right. Get busy with your planning, then, Pretty." T-Bag points a finger at the window, his face unsettling in its seriousness as he backs out onto the main floor.

Michael leans against the wall and sighs.

~*~

Back in his own cell, Michael trades the torn pants for a different pair and lies down on the bed. The headache that never quite leaves him is stronger now, and he closes his eyes to will it down.

Moments later, a soft rapping on the bars draws his attention. It's Westmoreland. Michael is suddenly glad to see him.

"Mind if I come in?"

"Of course. Please sit down." Michael gets up to make room, and Westmoreland motions him down beside him once he's settled.

"Saw what happened downstairs," Westmoreland begins. "I sent Bagwell over to break it up. Pointed out that it was in his best interests to keep you healthy."

"I appreciate that," Michael says softly.

"Thing is, though," Westmoreland rubs his moustache thoughtfully, "those fellows downstairs won't be the only ones. It'll keep happening again and again if you keep on like you're doing, making yourself vulnerable and not paying attention." His expression is sympathetic, but Michael knows he's serious. "Is that what your brother would want?"

_Lincoln._

"No…" Michael breathes out a reply.

Westmoreland nods, taking the information in. "Told you to be careful, didn't he?"

"His exact words, in fact."

"Doesn't surprise me."

They sit for awhile longer, in unhurried silence. Finally, Westmoreland speaks: "I really don't think you'll survive here if you serve your full sentence. You'll be marked as a victim, word'll get around. And it'll change a part of you that'd break your brother's heart, if he could see it. You won't be the man you should've been." He waits for Michael's reaction.

"What do you suggest?"

"You never planned to be here for long. You were going to get your brother out and start a new life. What's keeping you from doing that now?"

Michael's eyes prick at the mention of that failed plan, at the thought of that future with Lincoln that will never, ever happen. "What's the point, when Lincoln's gone?" he rasps out angrily.

"The point is _you,_" Westmoreland says. "I'm sorry about your brother, sorry as can be, but you can't throw your own life away on top of his. You've got to start caring enough to save _yourself._"

Michael thinks about the things Lincoln said to him at the end, about his own promises in return. "It's hard," he admits softly. "I was ready to give up everything as long as I didn't have to give up _him._"

"I know," Westmoreland says. "And I'm sure he knew it too."

"So…" Michael rests his elbows on his legs, trying to think. "I've got to come up with another plan."

"What's wrong with the old one? You've got time. Might even unload a few passengers along the way."

Michael looks at him in appraisal. No due date means the others won't be anticipating the exact time of the escape. No T-Bag, no C-Note, no anybody else but who he wants or needs to take with him. "You still interested?"

Westmoreland nods matter-of-factly. "Guess there's no point in me dying in prison either, old as I am."

"Good," Michael says, a smile breaking through. His chest feels lighter, his breathing easier for the first time in days.

"So what's the next step?" Westmoreland asks.

"I'll need to borrow some toothpaste."

~*~

It takes only a few more weeks to break down the pipe under the Infirmary again. At first Michael's days are spent waiting for his doctor's appointments and the mundanities of forcing himself to eat. When the sudden threat of carpeting over the hole in the Break Room floor rises up, it puts new life into him—an eleventh-hour scramble to float a concrete patch on the barest structural support, all on the off-chance he might need to bust through it later even though he expects to stay underground this time around.

"Soon," he tells Abruzzi with a few days pending, "but keep it quiet." Michael wishes he could leave without him, but he needs Abruzzi's airplane connections to get them far away as fast as possible. He'll have to live with the results.

He almost wishes Sucre could stay behind, but he made his friend an accomplice from the beginning, and Sucre doesn't deserve to take all the heat that would follow. Michael knows Sucre's thinking about Maricruz and the baby, but her loyalty's suspect and Sucre could wind up making himself a fugitive for nothing. He'd be better off not going and just serving the rest of his year. Thanks to Michael, that choice is gone.

The day it all goes down is a blue-sky Thursday— a beautiful day, the kind Lincoln used to love even stuck in prison because he said it made him feel like hope was out there waiting.

Michael has timed and re-timed the guards and Abruzzi's ordered the plane, and now it's a matter of hanging around until it's dark.

Westmoreland slips into the cell just before four and goes behind the wall. He volunteered to be first in their spread-out migration, the man most able to take the extra hours in the dark. "I'll catch some shut-eye back here," he says as they close him in.

Abruzzi saunters through at the beginning of the last outdoor break for the day. Sucre stands lookout while Michael helps Abruzzi through, then goes out to the Yard himself with Michael following soon afterward. They make sure they're both seen.

The cell doors will be closed for the night at seven-thirty, and they need to make their move before then. At six, Michael hangs a sheet for the last time, thinking about everything Fox River has cost him—his only brother, his very soul.

"Gonna miss this place?" Sucre pulls the toilet back away from the wall.

"Not for one second," Michael answers. He wonders if he'll ever feel like himself again.

Their progress through the tunnels is cramped, a longer journey than the one that started in the Break Room but taking less to chance. The rest of the plan goes off without a hitch, though pulling the window down from the Infirmary was more of a challenge than Michael expected.

Across the wire they go, climbing down the back of Fox River's walls with time to spare. Then they run for the van, run for freedom, under a night filled with stars like Michael hasn't seen in months.

They board the plane and lift off within minutes, arcing away from the prison, from the past.

"Where do we drop you off?" Abruzzi asks.

Michael realizes then that he doesn't really know.

His home is gone now—every home he ever had was somehow tied to Lincoln, even the ones he hated, even the frontman-for-success apartment his college degree helped him land, the degree that Lincoln made sure he got.

_Lincoln…_

Michael doesn't have a clear future in mind now, not without Lincoln. He's got a criminal record and an unfinished sentence, and all he can do is run until he figures out a better plan.

His throat tightens suddenly as he realizes he's alone now—utterly alone, even more than the worst moments of his life when there could still be "someday" and Lincoln ahead.

He's still struggling to find an answer when a gentle touch on his arm makes him turn. Westmoreland is watching him, his eyes full of understanding as he smiles with a quiet sympathy that soothes Michael's churning emotions.

His words are a promise:

"Michael and I are going to Utah."

_-------- fin -------_


End file.
